


Till I Wake Your Ghost

by Konstantya



Series: Driving Circles Around Me [1]
Category: Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Castelo, Eries confronts Folken in an attempt to get some answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till I Wake Your Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net, DW, and LJ) on June 14, 2013. Cross-posted here on April 21, 2015.

 

It was him.

There were differences, of course, when compared to the picture from her memory: His hair was shorter. His features had sharpened with maturity; his voice had deepened; his body had broadened. His countenance was more severe. But there was no doubt about it: It was him. Folken, Prince of Fanelia. Except that he was now Strategos of Zaibach.

Her father, if he noticed, didn't mention anything—didn't even send a meaningful glance her way. And it occurred to Eries that perhaps he truly _hadn't_ noticed. Her father was a shrewd man, there was no denying that, but their visit to Fanelia had been a long time ago, back before her mother had died, and it was no secret that Grava Aston didn't much like to think about his late wife.

(Eries couldn't blame him. She didn't much like to think about the past, either. It was too happy, too carefree, and—in a way her remaining sister could never really seem to understand—had a tendency to hurt too much.)

Even more surprising than her father's lack of recognition, however, was the lack of recognition from Lord Folken, himself. When the diplomatic convoy had arrived and introductions had been made, he'd put a hand to his chest and bowed deferentially, and she had respectfully inclined her head in return, determined to not show any alarm. If he wanted to pretend to be a Zaibachi strategist instead of a Fanelian prince, then so be it. Better to follow his lead and feign ignorance than to voice her suspicions so openly.

She had hoped he would provide an explanation. Had hoped there was a good reason behind the apparent masquerade. Some plot related to the incident at Fort Castelo, perhaps—because, really, if anything stunk of a plot, it was that—that he would come clean about. Would come clean about why he had gone missing, why it was only now—ten years later—that he was revealing himself, why he was seemingly working for Zaibach instead of his own country. She'd only met him the once, but he'd been such a bright, kind-hearted thing, all lanky limbs and lop-sided smiles—even towards her, awkward girl-child of eleven that she'd been, her head in books and her heart in the clouds—and she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Wanted to believe that there was still something of that radiant boy behind the reserved man he now presented himself as.

But after a full day and numerous interactions, the mask had yet to fall. So on the afternoon of the second day of his visit, she engineered to happen across him in the library. Perhaps it was a matter of public appearances—something she could appreciate, after all—and if she caught him alone, he might be more forthright.

He was standing at one of the shelves, a book in his hand, and when she entered, he turned and bowed. "Princess Eries."

She nodded back, the handful of leather-bound volumes smooth and reassuring in her arms. "Lord Folken. I do hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all. I was simply enjoying your selection of histories."

"Well," she said, with a small, polite smile, "please don't let me distract you." And with that, she went about returning the books she had brought in. The last one belonged on the shelf next to him, and she lingered there, to give him the opportunity to broach the subject.

Only he didn't. And after a good couple minutes of pretending to browse the stack in front of her, she realized he _wouldn't_.

Was it possible that it _wasn't_ a mask, after all? That he really _was_ working for Zaibach? That thought sent a little chill down her spine, but more pressing than that was the question of _why?_ There had once been talk of him maybe marrying Marlene—it was the entire reason her family had visited Fanelia in the first place; surely he owed her an explanation, if nothing else. And if _he_ wouldn't broach the subject, then _she_ would. And so, when she went to put away the volume currently in her hands, it came out, dispassionate and direct:

"The reports said you died ten years ago." A beat. And then she turned her head to look over at him and added, "Please tell me that it wasn't just some ploy to get out of marrying my sister."

To his credit, he didn't deny it. Didn't insult her intelligence by trying to play dumb. Instead, he just stood there, unmoving, unreadable, hand poised to replace his own volume back on the shelf. Eries watched him coolly, expectantly, and after a long moment, he finished tucking the book away.

"It's…a complicated situation," he admitted at length. His eyes were still on the shelf in front of him. "But rest assured, I would never do your sister such a dishonor." Another pause. Gracefully, he pulled another volume down. And then, unfailingly polite, his voice infuriatingly even, he asked, "Pray tell, how is the Princess Marlene?"

"Dead," she answered bluntly, watching him for any reaction. His eyebrows twitched towards each other, ever so slightly—the first sign of genuine emotion she'd seen on his face—and a vicious stab of satisfaction pierced her insides. And then immediately after, guilt washed over her for speaking so heartlessly of her late sister. She dropped her withering gaze from him and plucked another book off the shelf, almost at random. "She died three years ago," she elaborated, her voice just a little bit softer, almost as if in apology.

"…I'm sorry to hear that. You have my condolences." Despite the considerate words, the tone was as placid as ever, and she looked back over at him—at his dark dress, and carved profile, and unsmiling mouth—trying almost desperately to find something, anything, of the compassionate boy she remembered meeting. It was after a long moment and with a surprising pang of disappointment that she realized she couldn't.

Why that should hurt so much, she wasn't sure. It wasn't the first time she'd been disappointed, after all, and it wasn't as if he was the only one who had changed over time. Really, what had she expected?

Exasperated with herself, she opened the volume in her hands, hoping to find distraction among the pages, only to belatedly realize just which book she had grabbed: A well-worn collection of myths and fairytales—one she'd loved as a child. Full of knights and maidens and sorcerers and dragons, where true love conquered all.

She shut it and pushed it back in its place, suddenly done with this whole inane farce. But her hand couldn't help but trail wistfully along the spine, just a little, and she found herself confessing, "You know…I had once hoped you might become my brother." She thought of firm mouths and broken hearts, and dropped her hand. "I suppose it's just as well that I outgrew such foolish notions." And with that, she turned to leave.

A breath (a sigh?). A rustle of fabric, a shift of boots. And then: "Princess…"

Halfway out of the room, she turned to face him. "Strategos." The title came out coolly and pointedly—maybe even cruelly—because, no, he _wasn't_ the only one who had changed over time, and she hated how he was such a tangible reminder of that fact. Hated how she could have been so stupid as to have thought to rekindle a connection with him in the first place.

His eyebrows gave that little twitch again, and she wondered if she had irritated him. A part of her _hoped_ she had. It would serve him right, he who had deserted his homeland, who had rescinded his birthright, who had the gall to stand there so calm and collected while _she_ —

"I realize how this must look," he admitted. "That I've turned my back on my country. But please believe me when I tell you that the intentions behind my actions _are_ noble."

That last word managed to hit a nerve—one of the very few she risked injury of, these days—and it was almost a relief. Almost a relief to have something safe and familiar to hold onto in the face of all the chaos his reappearance had inadvertently caused. Her feet carried her back to him of their own accord, and it was suddenly just like any other lecture to her little sister, only she was glaring up this time, not down. " 'Noble'?" she demanded. "You were a _prince_. Heir to the throne of Fanelia. You had a _duty_ to your country, and you mean to tell me that your abandonment of that was _noble?"_

To her further frustration, he didn't bat an eyelash. And to her further humiliation, he simply said, "You mean the same duty _you_ abandoned by refusing to marry, despite your elder sister's death?"

Her throat tightened and her eyes narrowed, because _how dare he,_ he who knew _nothing_ of— And then it happened before she even knew what she was doing.

Later, she would berate herself for the outburst. Such a physical display was really more Millerna's style—infernal tomboy that she was—but what could she say? There was something about him that couldn't help but incense her. Something about his presence, his demeanor, the memories he dredged up. Something about the warm, laughing boy he'd once been (the romantic, idealistic girl _she'd_ once been), and whether she was angry at him because of his impenetrable hardness or angry at _herself_ because she still had so many soft spots in comparison, she wasn't sure. All she was sure of was the result: Her hand shot out and slapped him sharply across the cheek.

Or tried to, at any rate. He caught her wrist halfway to his face—and it suddenly occurred to her that, ever since his arrival, he had kept his right hand hidden within the confines of his cloak. And the reason _why_ suddenly occurred to her, as well. Because those weren't fingers around her wrist, but… _claws._ Despite herself, she gasped, and her eyes widened in something like fear. And good gods, it wasn't just his hand, but his entire _arm_. All the way up to the shoulder, by the looks of it.

Her heart, she realized, was pounding against her ribcage in a way it hadn't in a very long time, and for a terrible moment, she felt painfully, acutely _alive_.

She jerked her gaze up, and something finally flickered in those wine-dark eyes of his. Something melancholy and even contrite. His hand loosened around her wrist, and then moved to gently clasp her fingers, holding them in front of him like any well-mannered gentleman, like any court diplomat, like—

And then he let go, lowering his arm and tucking it self-consciously, almost apologetically, back behind his cloak. He looked off to the side. "As I said, it's complicated." And then: "As are your own reasons for refusing the throne, no doubt."

She cradled her hands in front of her stomach. Her fingers trembled with the echo of his touch. Her heart throbbed.

"H-how…?" she finally managed to push out.

He turned away from her completely. His voice was soft, grave. "The dragon, of course." He paused, and his eyes settled somewhere near the floor. "You didn't hear wrong, Princess Eries. Folken of Fanelia _did_ die that day."

She pressed her lips together, grateful for the distance between them. It made her feel more like herself. More in control. She dropped her arms to her sides and set her jaw. "And the Strategos of Zaibach was left in his place?" she demanded, because it was easier that way. Easier to be cold and callous than to…

He didn't respond to that, didn't turn around, and after a moment, she took a breath. "I see." Curtly, she inclined her head. "Good day, Lord Folken."

She didn't even get two steps away before his hand—his good one—closed around her wrist. "Princess."

The first thought that crossed her mind was how she wished he had used his right hand, instead. There was something about the feel of his skin against hers that was infinitely more frightening than hard steel and artificial sinew. Something about his grip that was colder, despite how the flesh was warmer. For an anxious moment, she wondered if he could feel her pulse spiking against his palm.

But then the moment passed, and the years of royal training slid into place as easily as an apple fell from a tree. Her frame stiffened to match the corset she wore, her body pivoted, her chin lifted imperiously, her eyes stared him dead square in his, and she icily commanded, "Un _hand_ me, sir."

Something flared in his eyes—something concerned or predatory or _something_ —but he blinked and it was gone. He let go of her. Took a breath and stepped back. "…My apologies," he said, and his tone was such that she wanted to believe he honestly regretted the action. "That was too forward of me, I admit. I only…want you to believe me."

Wanted her to believe him, or wanted to prevent her from spilling his secret? The thought flashed through her mind briefly, madly. There were paragraphs' worth of meaning in that mid-sentence hesitation of his, and she couldn't decipher one word of it.

Suddenly, the fact that they were the only two people in the room went from blessing to something far more ambiguous. Maybe even dangerous.

If she tried to run, would he restrain her? If she tried to scream, would he silence her? Folken of Fanelia would never have presumed to lay hands on a woman, but she found she couldn't be quite so sure about Folken of Zaibach. There was a vague hint of threat about him, she could see that now—a thin thread of menace woven in among his courtesies and quiet conduct, and dear Jichia, just _what_ had Asturia gotten itself into? What had _she_ had gotten _herself_ into?

"I'm not going to reveal your identity, if that's what you're worried about," she finally said, impassive as ever, and it was only after the words were out of her mouth that she realized they were true. Asturia was in a precarious enough position with Zaibach as it was; there was no need to make things openly hostile by exposing what was, for all intents and purposes, a traitor. And she wanted to believe… She wanted…

He seemed to relax at her words, almost imperceptibly, but before he could thank her for her discretion, she added (in warning?—in entreaty?), "Pray, do not make me regret that decision."

The Strategos of Zaibach put a hand to his chest and bowed deferentially.

The Second Princess of Asturia respectfully inclined her head in return.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 10+ years too late, I have finally seen this series! ~~OTL.~~
> 
> While it's not outright stated in the story, let's just assume that Folken found out Eries had forfeited the throne sometime between his arrival and their confrontation in the library. (Or else maybe he knew about it prior to his arrival? I imagine Zaibach's intelligence network is pretty good, but then you'd figure he would also know about Marlene's passing, so… WHATEVER, LEAVE MY PLOT HOLES ALONE.)
> 
> In other news, I rather like the idea that there was talk of Folken and Marlene maybe marrying. (Head-canon states they were really close in age, and it would explain why Millerna, and presumably the rest of the royal family, visited Fanelia back in the day, after all.) Not that I think they were officially engaged or anything, but more like the idea was proposed, they met, liked each other well enough (this would have been before Allen), and so Folken was like, "Sure, why not? But I should probably go through with my country's succession ritual before we formalize anything," and—oops. Kind of like the idea crashed and burned before it could even get off the ground, you know?
> 
> Lastly, despite the ambiguity of this piece, I really do like the idea of Folken/Eries (Eries/Folken?—aloof older siblings FTW, at any rate), it's just that I have a hard time seeing either of them being genuinely down with the romancin'. So until then, I guess I'll just have to make do with pointed conversations and maybe-sexual tension. *Shrug* Works for me!


End file.
